And no keys on the coffee table.
“Damn you, Tracy.”
Also missing is Joan’s big pickup.
Fenders bruised, engine smoking, it’s parked at a rural intersection nearby.
Climbing out is driver Tracy, at 9 years old a too young expert on life.
She finally has her trophies: Highway signs that once demanded ONE WAY and YIELD lay toppled, battered. Silenced.
The sun is rising, the pickup idling, and Tracy has only minutes.
With fist skyward she proclaims:
“I’m your commander now, Joan, and these crossroads are mine.“